Light for a Blind Man
by aweepingfangirl
Summary: Modern e/R AU. Grantaire is a cellist who dropped out of Juilliard. Enjolras is an intern for a senator in Washington. They both thought they had people, life, everything figured out. Then they meet. M for later sections.
1. Chapter 1

Grantaire was running late.

It wasn't out of the ordinary. Late was beginning to become a part of his personality description.

He couldn't remember where he'd put his rock stop after he'd finished practicing last night. After a few minutes of searching through the chaotic mess of his apartment, he gave up. Fuck _this_. _I think it's carpeted there anyway._

He debated bringing his bottle of wine with him. He never liked to perform sober, but he would have to drive to and from the event. Even perpetually-drunk-or-high Grantaire drew the line somewhere. He settled with bringing a pack of cigarettes.

He grabbed his cello case and took a last look around the ruin of his apartment. This was the fourth apartment in the fourth city he'd lived in ever since he dropped out of Juilliard, but they all looked the same. Sheet music, bottles of wine and liquor, open books and old records, clothes in various stages of wear lay strewn everywhere. The only clean area was his practice space. A chair and a music stand in the only well-lit corner of the room, right beside the window. His curtains were usually drawn, but some light bled in around the edges despite his desire for darkness. He always had the option to open them when he was practicing and overlook the city. His apartment actually had quite a nice view.

But it was always harder to play when he was reminded of the world that he wasn't in. So the curtains remained closed.

He took one last swig of wine and left.

The coffeehouse stage wasn't carpeted. They must've just removed it. "Damn." He muttered under his breath as the owner came up to greet him.

"Grantaire! Welcome!" Jean Valjean said, shaking his hand. "We're so excited to have you perform here."

"Thank you, sir." Grantaire replied, mimicking Valjean's warmth. "I always enjoy your audiences. They're supportive and enthusiastic, and I appreciate the opportunity you've given me."

Valjean smiled sincerely. "Well, you've certainly made things better for me as an entrepreneur, not having to worry about finding music in a moment's notice." He gestured to Grantaire's cello. "I'll let you unpack and warm up, but come and find me when you're finished. I have a proposition I want to discuss with you."

"Certainly, boss." Grantaire said, saluting him before turning away to prepare for his show.

It wasn't even much of a show, not really. He was mostly just playing background music for people who were enjoying fancy pants beverages and having "intellectual" conversations. It was all bullshit as far as Grantaire was concerned. Coffeehouses were for people who liked to pretend to be all profound and highbrow. People didn't go there to hang out or actually converse; they came there to be _seen _there. The beverages' names themselves just solidified the entire atmosphere's pretentiousness. Who the fuck names a cup Earl Grey with some milk "London fog"?

Still, Grantaire couldn't really complain about his gigs there. Faux-intellectuals gave wicked tips, and Valjean was always generous with its distribution, hardly keeping any for himself. He usually got enough there in one night to buy liquor for the week.

His whole performance was a little off because he had to clutch his cello between his legs to keep it from slipping down. He didn't think he rosined his bow enough before. The tone was coming off as muffled and scratchy, not singing as much as he could on a good day when he'd had enough wine. But he had almost no alcohol in his system, which greatly inhibited his ability to ignore his conceited and fake surroundings.

Still, it was a good show. He opened with a Shostakovich prelude and continued with a Bach suite, a nice Eccles sonata, and a few Indie songs that he'd improvised. He had to stifle a gag when someone asked if he could play "The Swan" but he did anyway and the audience loved it. When he was done, the audience applauded and a few girls approached him afterwards, telling him how lovely his playing was. He could tell that he could easily score one or both of them if he wanted to. He might have, but he wanted to see what Valjean wanted, so he politely thanked them and went to find Valjean.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Grantaire asked when he finally found him in the back room cleaning out some coffeepots.

"Yes! Fantastic performance as always." Valjean said, turning to face him.

"Thank you." Said Grantaire, putting his hands in his pockets nervously. _What was this about?_

"As you know, people here love to see you perform. Business always booms and my customers always talk about how much they love having their own cellist here. I think it gives them a sense of identity, much more than booking separate gigs every week will do. So I want to offer you a full-time job."

Grantaire's mouth popped open. He definitely wasn't expecting that. Maybe a raise or a new formula for dividing the tips between him and the barista. He didn't know what to say. "Um… thank you. Thank you so much. I accept; of course I do."

Jean Valjean beamed at him. "Brilliant. Shall we discuss your salary and hours?"

Grantaire arrived home in a daze, for once not caused by alcohol. For the first time since he dropped out of school, he had a semblance of stability in his life, an actual job, someone who actually believed in him. He felt like he should probably tell someone, so he whipped out his phone to text Eponine.

_Valjean offered me a full-time job playing at the coffeehouse._

_**R, that's awesome! I'm so happy for you!**_

___Thanks! Feel like grabbing a beer?_

_**Oh, I want to! But I have plans with Marius already. We're going to see that new zombie movie.**_

___Oh. Well have fun, I guess._

_**He'll probably just be moaning about how beautiful that mystery girl in his sociology class is, but yeah I'll try. Congrats on the job try not to drink too much!**_

___Yeah… likely._

He thought about calling Courf but decided against it. Courf had been going on and on about this new guy who moved into town and had broadened the entire group's political horizons, so they'd probably be hanging out all together, and Grantaire found that hard to deal with without being at least slightly inebriated. Plus, he was still recovering from the shock of his actually having a job. No, he didn't want to meet anyone new. He grabbed a bottle of rum and some Nietzche, then settled in for another quiet, lonely evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras liked this town.

There were plenty of good places to hang out, his superiors were knowledgeable, and his classmates were great. He knew right after he met Combeferre that this place would be ten times better than Columbia. He much preferred Washington to New York. A much better political atmosphere, and he loved having a firsthand look at the political process which he longed to be a part of.

Enjolras knew that he had charisma. People were almost predisposed to like him. He'd never had a problem making friends or getting people to agree with him. Life, he thought, had been relatively easy.

But never until he met Combeferre and his friends did he actually enjoy it. In this new circle of people, he didn't feel like just the head of the group. He felt like a part of it, like these people didn't just follow him around because they respected him but because they accepted him too.

He was settling into his new apartment quite well. He had finally gotten all of his books organized by author within genre. All of his teas and coffees were organized in his cupboards and his music filed and stacked in all of the appropriate locations. Everything was in its place, just how he liked it.

Today was Sunday, so he didn't have to work. Things were busy at the capital, and even though he enjoyed his work, he enjoyed simply getting to know his friends better. He had just placed his John Locke treatises on his bookshelf, front and center, which was the last box he had left to unpack. He was officially moved in. He smiled to himself as he left to meet Combeferre and the rest at this coffeehouse that Jehan wouldn't stop prattling on about. He thought he'd also heard Courfeyrac say that he still had to meet someone else in the group. It struck him as odd that he hadn't met him yet, as he'd been hanging around with them for over a week now.

Enjolras arrived at the coffeehouse a half hour early so he could scope out the place. No one was there yet—obviously—so he ordered a simple cup of green tea and sat down in a corner table so he could observe.

He was immediately struck by the cellist playing in the center of the room. He had a curly mess of black hair and bloodshot blue eyes that were looking down at the ground in front of him. His simple gray oxford shit that had wine stains on the sleeves and his dark washed jeans looked like they hadn't been ironed or washed in days. Enjolras could see even from here that he had a fine layer of stubble on his chin.

He was playing the Largo from Vivaldi's "Winter." His eyebrows were knitted together in concentration and he closed his eyes as he sank deeper into the music. Everything about him looked foreign and so different than the other cellists he'd met at Yale, from anyone else Enjolras had ever known. The way he seemed completely into the music, the consistency of his bowing arm, the emotional inconsistency of his vibrato, the way his chest perked up during the rests as he took in a new breath, the way his shoulders swayed back and forth in time with his bow strokes. Enjolras was entranced. The cellist looked up.


	3. Chapter 3

Looking at back at that moment, Grantaire was still unsure of how he could keep playing after he looked up. How he could even finish his set when an actual Greek god was watching him from the back corner of the room.

Yet somehow his arm kept playing. He finished "Winter" then played a Bach suite because those were easier to mechanically go through without putting much thought into it. He could no longer concentrate on the music, just the god in the corner of the room that didn't even have the decency to lower his eyes. No, even after Grantaire looked up, Apollo kept his eyes glued to Grantaire.

He decided that this man was a present-day Apollo. Apollo had wavy blond hair that cascaded down about halfway down his neck. Grantaire wondered what it would feel like to bury his face in it. He was wearing a creamy white V-neck that showed off his prominent collar bones. Some blonde chest hair poked through the top. His sharp cheekbones stood high and proud on his chest, and his defined and angular jawline looked smooth and clean-shaven. The sun streamed through the window beside him, illuminating his face and extenuating the sharp, fervent lines of his face. He looked, in a word, divine.

It wasn't his unearthly beauty that had captured Grantaire's attention, however. It was his gaze. Apollo looked at him quizzically, as if he was unsure what to make out of him. He had that look that didn't just slide over you, it penetrated you.

Grantaire had no idea what kind of impression he was making, he just felt the strongest feeling that he needed to listen to this man, this god. That if he listened to him, he'd have something important to say. That just being around him might just cause some of his passion, his vivacity to rub off on Grantaire a little bit.

He felt a strong desire to impress this man. So he winked and kept playing.

Apollo smiled and looked back down at his cup of tea.

When Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and the rest of the circle came in and sat with Apollo, Grantaire suspected who he was. He inwardly cursed himself for not meeting this man before now because he was obviously the intern that Courf was talking about and he could've had the pleasure of gazing on him over a week ago.

Apollo seemed to really come alive when he was talking to the circle. Whatever they were talking about, he obviously felt passionate about it because his entire being radiated energy. Grantaire wondered what it was before deciding he didn't care. He could be talking about different types of pond algae and Grantaire would still want to listen to him, just watch him stay this alive for hours on end.

Grantaire wasn't gay, but he knew he wasn't straight either. He tended to take what he could get without worrying about genitals too much. He didn't think he was capable of feeling anything above the waistline when it came to other people. Who was this man to start making him question things all of the sudden? Who was this god that could make him want to be anything other than a drunk cellist with a sex drive?

The idea that he may be falling in love never even crossed his mind. All he knew was that he wanted more of this man in every way possible.

After he finished his shift, he walked over to where the his friends were still talking animatedly to one another—or Enjolras was talking animatedly to them. "So you must be the congressional intern, yeah?" Grantaire said as a means of introducing himself.

Apollo looked up, his eyes bright from the conversation. "And you must be Grantaire!" He stood up and offered his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you; I've heard great things. I can't believe we haven't crossed paths until now!"

Courf rolled his eyes at Grantaire as he shook the man's name. "He's really exaggerating. We told him about what a hardcore partier you are, but then you don't even leave your apartment for a week! What's up with that?"

Grantaire laughed. "Sorry I was a bit overwhelmed with dealing with having a full-time job for the first time ever."

"Really? What's your occupation?" Apollo asked curiously.

"You're looking at it." Grantaire gestured to his cello.

"Oh, good for you. I know it must be hard being a musician in today's world where the classical isn't appreciated as much as it once was. It must be nice working at a place like this where art outside of the mainstream is accepted." Apollo said.

Grantaire grinned wryly and looked at the hipsters around them, taking pictures of each other and their cups, having pointless conversations about ideas they thought made them look special. "You… you could say that, I guess." He let out with a laugh.

Apollo gave him a weird look and he just shook his head. "So you're an intern at the senate, yeah?"

His eyes lit up. "Yes! I'm working as an assistant from one of our senators from Connecticut. He's trying to get a bill passed making it easier for illegal immigrants to become citizens, so the office is kind of swamped right now, but I'm really loving working there."

Grantaire smiled at his enthusiasm. He was about to ask another question about who the senator was and what the bill entailed when Combeferre coughed.

The entire table was staring at them. Jehan was looking between the two of them with a dreamy expression on his face. The rest of them looked at Grantaire curiously. Grantaire looked down and realized that he was still holding Apollo's hand.

Apollo laughed awkwardly and let him go. Grantaire dropped his hand back down to his side. He could feel it tingling. "Anyway, everyone else's already heard this conversation a million times before. I won't bore them with it again."

Grantaire smiled coyly and sat down at the table. "Maybe some other time then." He really couldn't care less about illegal immigration, but he certainly wasn't going to pass up on the opportunity to see Apollo light up like that again. He didn't think he could ever get enough of his complete certainty in himself, in his ideas.

Apollo looked at him oddly then said, "Yeah. Definitely."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "I look forward to it."

"Maybe we should change the subject before they fuck right here on the table." Courfeyrac said cheekily.

Enjolras turned bright red and Grantaire laughed.

"SO HOW'S COSETTE, MARIUS?"

They didn't get a chance to talk to each other one-on-one for the rest of the evening, but just being near Apollo was enough for Grantaire. When they were leaving, he approached the god again. "Hey, so I wasn't joking earlier. We should definitely hang out sometime. You can tell me about that bill you're trying to get passed."

Apollo smiled. "I'd like that."

Grantaire ripped the corner off of a sheet of music he had laying in his case and wrote down his number on it next to a capital R. "Call me sometime, then."

"Yeah… I will." His god told him, still grinning.

Grantaire held out his hand. Apollo shook it, keeping his eyes locked on Grantaire's. They stayed like that for a few seconds, hands and eyes locked, daring the other to move before Joly burst in.

"Do any of you have any hand sanitiz—oh, sorry." He backed away awkwardly, sensing that he was interrupting something.

"Yeah, I do." Apollo said, disengaging from Grantaire. He reached into his back pocket and handed it to Joly.

"…Thanks." Joly said timidly, backing away.

Grantaire laughed. "Call me." He told Apollo, winking, before he turned to leave.

"Okay." Apollo called after him, sounding slightly bewildered and a little intrigued. Grantaire smiled to himself as he walked back to his car.

It wasn't until Grantaire packed his cello into the trunk of his car and was driving back to his apartment that he realized he still didn't even know Apollo's real name.


End file.
